Page 51 of Breakaway Daddies

At a stop sign, I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing down the lump in my throat and swallowing hard.

And what the hell am I supposed to do when they discover I’m pregnant, too?

As soon as I pull into the parking lot, the tires barely come to a halt before I shove the gear into park and push the door open with a frantic shove. The acrid tang of bile rises up my throat, and I vomit onto the rough, oil-stained asphalt.

The sharp burn sears my throat, and tears sting my eyes as I lean against the cold, dented metal of the car for support. My entire body quivers uncontrollably with mounting dread.

I am so fucked.

With a shaky hand, I wipe my mouth on the back of my sleeve, trying to steady my breathing with ragged, uneven gulps of air. My mind spins furiously, cycling through every possible disaster like a relentless, nightmarish highlight reel.

What if I get fired? What if I can’t land another job? Who in their right mind would hire me now that I’m plastered across every national tabloid?

My chest constricts painfully, and I force myself to stand upright, pressing a trembling hand against my churning stomach.

I can’t afford to let myself unravel right now. I have to step inside that building. I have to maintain the façade that I can handle this.

I push through the front doors of the rink, the cold air biting at my cheeks as I keep my gaze fixed on the scuffed tiles beneath my feet. The curious eyes of onlookers prick my skin before I even meet their gazes.

Ally and Kenzie’s voices echo through the space, laced with concern as they call out my name, but I don’t pause. I can’t afford to.

The panic is a tight knot in my chest, threatening to unravel if I acknowledge them for even a moment.

My boots clatter against the floor, the sound bouncing off the walls as I stride down the hallway. I pass the familiar scent of sweat and ice near the locker rooms, the muffled cheers from the rink entrance just a distant hum.

My destination looms closer with every step.

I practically tumble into my office, the door slamming shut with a force that reverberates in my bones. I lean forward, resting my forehead against the cool, solid wood, and exhale shakily. My breath is a ragged whisper in the silence.

For a fleeting moment, I let the intrusive thoughts in: flashes of newspaper headlines blaring accusations, the endless stream of ruthless online comments, and the press’s relentless, judgmental eyes that seem determined to haunt me forever.

The moment is shattered by a sudden, sharp knock at the door. I barely have a second to gather myself before Coach Walker enters, his face a mask of neutrality that offers no clues to his thoughts.

“Come with me,” he instructs, his voice steady and firm.

My stomach twists with dread, a sinking feeling that anchors me to the spot.

Coach’s office feels like a sauna, the air thick with tension and the scent of old paper. I lower myself into the worn leather chair across from his cluttered desk, my hands clenching into tight fists on my lap.

The silence drags on, heavy and oppressive, until he finally clears his throat.

“I’m assuming you’ve seen the news,” he says, his voice gravelly with frustration.

I release a slow breath through my nose, trying to keep my composure. “Yeah, I’ve seen it.”

Coach rubs his temples as if trying to massage away a migraine, his expression weary. I understand his concern, but it’s my future that’s on the line, not just the team’s reputation.

“This is bad, Jessica,” he says, his use of my real name reinforcing the weight of the situation. “We’ve been working to maintain a family-friendly, clean reputation. And this—this whole thing,” he gestures vaguely with his hand, “isn’t it.”

I press my teeth into the inside of my cheek, a silent rebellion forming inside me. I refuse to apologize for who I am or the choices I make in my personal life.

“You do realize I’m not the only one in a relationship like this, right?” I challenge, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

Coach leans forward, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes me squirm. “No, but you’re the only one to get national attention and embarrass the organization with your antics, aren’t you?”

His voice cuts through the air like a knife.

“See, those other situations? They can keep their heads down. Stay out of the spotlight. But you,” he scoffs, “you want to go have sex in public and act like there aren’t cameras following the players everywhere.”

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